


Days 5, 6, 7: Gunpoint, Dragged Away, Isolation

by tbazzsnow (Artescapri)



Series: Whumptober 2019 [5]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Day 6 Dragged away, Day 7 Isolation, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Goblins, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Paintball, Some Humor, Whumptober 2019, a day out for Simon and Baz, day 5 gunpoint, prompt combination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-27 01:53:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21384142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow
Summary: Whumptober Day 5, 6, 7: Gunpoint, Dragged Away, IsolationI got a bit behind so I decided to combine these three prompts into a longer fic.At Penny's suggestion Baz and Simon have a day out. But, of course, trouble finds them. Kidnapping, goblins, paintball, and a bit of Duran Duran--with a healthy helping of hurt/comfort and banter.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Whumptober 2019 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1541554
Comments: 11
Kudos: 98





	Days 5, 6, 7: Gunpoint, Dragged Away, Isolation

Gunpoint, Dragged Away, Isolation

**Baz**

The moment Snow heads to the bathroom for a shower Bunce lunges at me, pulling a brightly coloured piece of paper from her pocket and waving it in my face.

I scoot away, until I’m wedged into the corner of their lumpy sofa. “What is the meaning of this attack, you fright?”

She flaps the paper at me again. “Read this!”

I pluck it from her fingertips and spread it out on my knees. It’s some sort of flyer. One of those god-awful things they have pinned to the bulletin board at the café on campus.

I roll my eyes at her and she knocks her shoulder into mine. “_Read it.”_

I’ve learned you don’t cross Bunce when she’s like this—reeking of intensity and too much caffeine.

The black print is stark against the orange paper. “PAINTBALL TOURNAMENT” is emblazoned at the top in 72-point font. Overkill, if you ask me. I skim the rest then turn to her. “Yes? Why are you giving this to me?”

“It’s for Simon.”

“Then why the devil aren’t you giving it to him?”

She crosses her arms and levels a glare at me over her glasses. She’s actually quite terrifying when she’s like this. “I’m giving it to you so you can take him there.”

“Why on earth would I take Snow to a paintball tournament?” I peer at the paper again. “With people we don’t even know?”

“So he can shoot things.”

Oh. I suppose there is some sense to that.

“Yes, fine, I get that, but why do I have to take him?” I can think of far better ways to spend an afternoon than crawling around in the dirt with a horde of chavvy wankers with a gun fetish.

Although crawling around in the dirt with Snow does have a certain appeal.

“So you can shoot things _together_.” She huffs at me. “You’ve said it yourself, Baz. He doesn’t get enough exercise. He used to train all the time. He used to go on missions, run himself ragged on those ridiculous quests the Mage sent him on.” She flops back against the sofa, all the energy gone out of her. “He doesn’t do any of that anymore.”

She’s right. He doesn’t. He’ll go for a run here and there but it’s not so easy with wings and a tail, even spelled invisible. They throw him off pace.

Snow joined a fencing club a few months back, but there’s no one there who can match him. He got bored after just a few weeks.

Much as it pains me to admit, Bunce has a point.

Simon might actually like this. An activity where he can use the skills he honed for years as the Mage’s Heir but not actually have to kill anyone or anything.

It could be good for him.

I suppose we could take the train. I’d rather not get any stray drips of paint on the Jag.

“Fine, Bunce. I’ll see if he wants to go.”

Snow is literally bouncing. He’s got his camouflage combat suit on, protective body armor all in place, goggles perched on top of his head. His tail is tucked away.

I’ve done an **_“out of sight, out of mind” _**on him and made his wings incorporeal. As long as he doesn’t think about them we should be fine. I debate casting a **_“these aren’t the droids you’re looking for” _**as well, for good measure, but decide that it’s not quite sporting. He’s already got an unfair advantage over the chunky tossers populating this place. 

And an unfair advantage over me.

All that’s left to do now is choose our weapons and decide on an ammo package.

We’ve been assigned to a random team, since there are only two of us, and thank magic we’re on the same one.

I strap my ammo belt on. I was planning on the standard issue rifle and ammo package but Snow insists I get some high tech, stealth sniper rifle. “You’ve not done this before, Baz.”

“Neither have you, you nightmare.”

Snow scoffs. “Yeah, but I’ve played video games for years.” He steps closer and zips my suit all the way up, fingers resting on my chest for a moment. “Trust me. You’d rather be behind the line with the long-range weapon.” He leans in, words barely above a whisper. “With your eyesight and reflexes you’ll be fucking lethal with this.”

I do what he says. There is no way I can argue with Snow when he looks at me like that.

He gets the top of the line rifle and enough ammunition to supply a small army. Which I suppose is exactly what he is.

It ends up being far more entertaining than I anticipated. Snow’s right, I prefer a position a bit back from the fray, out of the direct line of fire, so I can pick off my opponents one by one from there.

He thinks I’m being strategic. Only if my strategy is getting as good a look at Simon Snow in action as I can.

Unlike Bunce, I’ve rarely gotten to see Snow in his element, relying on the pure power of his body and the instincts that have been trained into him. He’s powerful. He’s lethal. He’s fucking breathtaking.

And I will take down every arsehole that even tries to get a shot on him.

My ammunition is soon running low and I belatedly curse myself for not listening to Snow. No matter. I wedge myself behind a bunker and peer through a crack, rifle at ready. I can watch Snow to my heart’s content like this. No one’s going to make an effort to ferret me out here. I’ve got the drop on them from my vantage point.

Snow is mesmerizing. He’s halfway across the battle ground now, yelling as he advances on the enemy forces, spraying them liberally with yellow paint. Kill shot after kill shot.

He’s a one-man platoon, on berserker mode.

It’s brilliant.

There are two enemy combatants advancing on him now, left and right, using the meagre hedges and undulations of the ground to cover their progress. I wonder why they haven’t sent a volley of paint at him yet.

I pick off the one on the left first, since he’s closer to Snow, and then turn my sights on the bloke on the right. I hit him too. Kill shots both.

But they don’t stop advancing.

According to rules they both should be out of play now. I reload and hit them again for good measure.

They don’t stop.

There’s something sinister in their stalking of Snow, even if he has decimated their ranks single-handedly. They should be shooting at him, not tracking him in this way.

I’m leaping over the bunker and racing across the no man’s land in an instant, eyes on Snow.

They tackle him from behind, which is clearly a violation of rule number three.

I’m not going to get to him in time. I don’t know what’s going on, but these two are a different sort than the regular paintball denizens we’ve run into so far.

They’re tall, lithe, faster than I would expect as they lunge forward and tackle Snow to the ground.

He’s not going down easy. Snow lands punches on them both, feet flailing as he kicks the legs out from under one of them and knocks his head into the other’s chest.

I’m almost to him when I feel a thud against my back. Some sodding git has nailed me with a paintball. The abruptness of it catches me off guard and I stumble on a rock, going down in a heap. I’m back on my feet in an instant but I’m too late.

The two blokes have a hold of Snow and they’re already dragging him into a forbidding two story structure with no windows on the far edge of the field. He’s not fighting back. They’re moving far faster than any Normal should.

One looks back at me and gives me a smirk. A blood-red grin from a green-cast face.

Fuck.

Goblins.

**Simon**

My head’s throbbing when my eyes blink open. Fuck, it hurts. I try to reach up to rub my head but my hands are tied behind my back.

It all comes back to me. My mad rush across the field, the ambush.

Fucking Goblins. I don’t know why they can’t have an election or a hereditary monarchy or a parliamentary procedure instead of this fucking arbitrary method of choosing a king centered on who kills me.

That’s no basis for a system of government.

These two are grinning at me from across the room, smooth green skin, blood red lips. Fit and feral, the bastards. They finally figured out that it would take more than one of them to take me down.

Took them long enough.

I wonder where Baz is. I’m sure he’s gone completely feral himself, if he witnessed them ambushing me.

It’s Penny and Baz’s biggest fear, that I’d be waylaid by murderous magical creatures someday when I was alone.

Well I wasn’t alone, it was in broad fucking daylight, and in a public place, for Merlin’s sake. A damn paintball venue, of all things. Proves my point, really. Baz and Penny can’t protect me every minute of every day, even if they’re right there with me. I have to be able to fend for myself. Like I always did before.

Just without magic this time.

The taller of the two saunters across the room. “Finally got you, Mage’s Heir.”

“Yeah, well, hope you two have it figured out which one of you gets the crown.”

Goblins may be fit and fast but they aren’t the smartest, not as far as thinking things through. They’d have had me years ago if they’d been savvy enough to stop trying to get me one on one.

If I can keep them talking, stall for time, that should give Baz a chance to find his way to me.

If anyone can hunt me down it’s him.

I doubt they’d kill me here, anyway. I’m sure they have to do it in front of some formal tribunal, to prove it’s actually me and that I’m actually dead. I mean, that’s what would make sense, from a political standpoint, but who knows with this lot.

Seems to be working, from the frowns on their faces. “Hadn’t thought of that, had you?” I say, bold enough to rub it in a bit, now that I know I’ve got them thinking.

That earns me a kick from the shorter goblin. “Shut your mouth, Chosen One.”

They retreat to a corner of the room and start bickering. Maybe they’ll kill each other off and do Baz’s work for him.

I’d not mind.

I think this is the structure from the far end of the battle field. I’d seen it and assumed it was a storage facility of some kind.

It is.

There are two lawnmowers and a small tractor. Rolled up fencing. A stack of wood in the far corner. Field maintenance it seems. I take stock, to see what might be useful as a weapon. The shovels and rakes appear to be the most promising.

The building is about two stories high but there’s only the one floor and then a little loft on the far side, with a ladder leading up to it. I can’t see if there’s anything up there from here. It’s dark and dim in here, just a few lights shining weakly high up in the rafters.

There are no windows. Just a door. A solid one.

The Goblins seem to have reached some sort of agreement. One leans against the wall and the other comes my way. “Get up.”

I don’t.

I’m not going to make it easy on them. I may be tied up but that doesn’t mean I have to be obedient. They’ll have to carry me if they want to take me anywhere. I’m not tall but I’m solid. I can make it difficult if I choose.

I do choose.

It takes both of them to get me across the space to the ladder. I’m kicking and flailing, shouting at them too, just in case Baz is near enough to hear me. He won’t even have to be that close, with his hearing, but I roar at them anyway. Makes me feel better, it does.

I’m not going to lie, I’m right furious these two got the drop on me. I let my guard down, thinking it was just Normals here.

Won’t be making that mistake again.

They finally drag me up the ladder, thumping me on every step as they take me up. I’m going to have bruises all over by then end of this.

It’s a small space, filled with boxes of paint balls, labeled by size and color. They shift two of the boxes and wedge me between them, tightening the ropes on my hands again and tying my feet now for good measure.

They have gotten smarter.

Arseholes.

One leans down, all smiles again. “We’ll be back, Mageling. Can’t drag you out the front gate of this place in broad daylight but it’ll be dark soon enough.” His grin is all sharp teeth and red lips. “Once they’re all gone Nigel will bring the car around and we’ll have you right where we want you.”

The other one chimes in. “You’ve had a good run. And now you’re running days are over.” They’re giving me matching smiles now, all cocky, thinking they’ve got me cornered.

They do but I’m not going down without a fight. They’ve given me their plan, so now I know what to expect. No subtlety at all.

The short one—Nigel, I suppose—checks his watch. It looks like a fucking Rolex. I don’t understand goblins, I really don’t.

“Come along, Terry,” he says. “We’ve got to get out of here before they do a sweep of the property for the night and put the gear back in here.”

They go down the ladder. I hear a door click and then I’m alone.

I scoot forward as far as I can, without getting too close to the edge. I wonder why they store the paint up here, rather than down of the main level. I’ll probably never know.

I give my hands an experimental wiggle but the ropes are tight. I try to twist my fingers to find the knots but I’ll give the goblins this—they know how to truss you up good and proper. I won’t be getting myself out of these rope shackles anytime soon.

I end up thinking about the spells I could have used when I had magic.

“**_Cutting the Gordian knot” _**is tricky—Alexander the Great may have cut an actual knot but most people use that spell for solving a conundrum, not an actual knot in a rope. **_“Gotta help our Cinderelly,” _**would have brought out every rat and field mouse in the place, although I’m not sure I could have had them gnaw the ropes willingly.

Who am I kidding? Those would have never worked for me. Too complicated.

I’d have just called the Sword of Mages and sawed the ropes against the blade until I could break the strands.

Or I would have just gone off. Reduced the whole building to splinters.

I miss magic. I miss it with my heart and soul. I miss it so much I can taste it—the smoke and burning that used to come over me when I’d use it.

But I was never any good at it, was I?

I can’t let myself think about that. Not right now.

Not when I’m stuck here, with no way out and no idea where Baz is.

Fuck. I wonder if this is what Agatha used to feel like?

Bloody useless. I hate it.

Bet she did too.

**Baz**

I’ve been circling the building, trying to find a way in. There’s only the one door. I pull on the knob, rattle the hinges but I can’t rip it away, even with my vampire strength. I don’t know what they’ve done to it, the bastards, but it won’t budge. Goblins don’t have much magic but they do fucking have the market on making doorways do their bidding. Even **_“open sesame” _**fails me. Fucking hell.

There’s not a window, not a crack in the foundations. Nothing.

I’m losing my mind. I heard Simon shout. I heard his voice through the solid walls of this god-forsaken structure. Why the fuck do you need an impenetrable fortress at a sodding paintball club?

My fangs have popped, my fists are clenched. I’m going to rip these bastards limb from limb.

Simon has to still be alive. There’s no way they’d go to their tribunal or whatever the fuck they call it without proof they’d captured him. Without proof they’d killed him.

I’m circling around again, looking for anything I might have missed my first time around, when the goblins come out the fucking door a few feet away from me, all glamoured to look like members of fucking Duran Duran instead of their disgusting green selves—all big hair and frosted waves, eyeliner on point. It's not a good look with the camouflage jumpsuits. 

I’m on them before they even see me, silent and deadly. I knock into the taller one—he looks just like John Taylor—shifting him off balance. He bumps into the shorter one—more of a Nick Rhodes look on that one—and then turns on me with a snarl.

I’m ready for him.

I snap his neck before he can even take a step.

The Nick Rhodes look-alike takes a step back, looks like he’s ready to run for it, but I’m on him before he has the chance.

“Where is he?”

“Where’s who?”

“Don’t fuck with me. Where’s Simon?”

He tries to claw at me. Goblins have long, elegantly manicured nails but you’ll get a nasty rash if they scratch you. My hand goes up lightning fast and I catch his wrist. I bend it back until the bone snaps and he howls. **_“Silence is golden” _**I mutter. No good having anyone hear us. I can handle one goblin on my own and I don’t want an audience.

I’m not well versed in the memory spells the Coven uses on Normals that inadvertently witness displays of magic. Or the one my father uses on Vera from time to time.

Less seen the better.

I make quick work of this goblin too, snapping his head with a twist. He goes limp and falls to the ground. I cast a **_“into thin air” _**on the corpses and rush to the door**_. “Open sesame” _**works this time.

I rush inside, scanning around the room for Simon. I hear a shout from above and I spot him, trussed up but grinning at the sight of me, on some sort of landing up a ladder.

I’m up it in an instant, casting **_“like a hot knife through butter” _**to shear through his bonds.

I’ve got my arms around him an instant later. “You bloody bastard. You courageous fuck. I told you it would be the bloody goblins, I told you those arseholes would never rest.”

Snow leans into me, head on my shoulder. It takes me a minute to realize he’s laughing. “Are you all right, Simon?” I catch his face between my hands and stare into his eyes.

He’s still smiling. “What are you laughing about, you nightmare? You could have been killed.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of that spell,” Snow says. “I was sitting here, waiting for you to finally show up, you jammy bastard, trying to remember what spells would work to cut ropes. _’Like a hot knife through butter.’ _You’d think, of all the spells, I’d remember that one.”

I rub my thumb on his cheekbone and shake my head. “You’d think.” I press a kiss to his forehead and then stand up, pulling him up with me.

Last time I listen to Bunce. _Take him for paintball_, she said. _It’ll be good for him, _she said. Bloody hell.

But when I look at Simon I know she was right, fucking Goblins and all.

He’s sweaty and bruised, with a lump on the side of his head, but his smile is wide, wider than it’s been in weeks.


End file.
